Headless Horseman
by ellenshipley
Summary: When an old Immortal comes calling, Duncan must dodge the FBI to avenge a friend. I only borrowed the characters; I own no rights to any of them.
1. Chapter 1

History died this night. Whichever swordsman prevailed, a millennium of memories would end, consumed in electric flame. Only the essence, transported on purifying tongues of fire, would live on in the man who remained.

If he was a man.

Janos watched the battle from the trees, dangerously close to the imminent display. He might singe his whiskers, as the old joke went, half in humor, half in warning. But Janos, emboldened by youthful expectations, did not fear for his own safety. He considered himself a combat journalist, recording his observations for a select readership.

The clash of steel came plainly to his ears, but the night obscured his view as the fight flowed up a rise and over. Recklessly, Janos followed, dropping to a crouch and then to all fours to peer through tall grass at the two men bent on destruction.

Cavandish was a skilled swordsman, but the Count, _his_ Count, had more guile. In seventeen months, Janos had personally witnessed six Quickenings - a lifetime's ambition for an ordinary Watcher. The average Immortal might go half a century without taking a head. But then Aldur Petrovic was not an average Immortal. He took his first head when Constantinople was young.

Janos bared his teeth. He thrived on the fast track. No backwater assignment for him. He'd worked hard to snag the Count when the post came suddenly open. Normally the purview of more seasoned Watchers, occasionally a choice assignment fell to a quick-thinking novice. And Janos was nothing if not enterprising.

He parted the blades of grass to afford himself an unobstructed view. Sparks flew off the flashing steel, sending an electric shock of anticipation up his spine. His tongue flicked across his upper lip. He never felt so alive as when he watched this dance of death. Was it like this for Immortals, knowing Death called the tune, even for them? Did the Count taste the tang of fear on his own tongue?

Janos doubted it. The Count was fearless, justifiably so. No one stood against his attack. Young, old - the experienced and the green - they all succumbed to his fiery blade. The Count was not particular. He was a one-man army, laying waste to legions of Immortals over the centuries. No one escaped the Hungarian Horseman, as he had once been called. The Count had many names, to go along with his many-lived existence.

Count Petrovic was slight of build, but quick and agile. He more than made up for his lack of stature in his acrobat's ability to be where he was not expected. Cavandish was thwarted again and again, frustrated in his attempt to drive home an attack. The Count simply slipped beneath his guard and pressed his own attack.

Cavandish, the better swordsman, was beginning to flag. His opponent's gyrations were wearing him down. It showed itself in a flash of anger that cost him his footing, but he turned the blade in time to recover. He renewed his attack, fighting feverishly. The Count danced in and out of range.

The music of the blades increased in tempo. Janos' heart beat in time to the tattoo So close now. His Count would prevail again, adding this English dandy to his awesome collection.

And Janos would record it all in the Count's own Watcher Chronicle. The worn leather-bound tome dug into his leg as he lay along the crest of the hill. Almost as old as the Count himself, the precious chronicle had passed from Watcher to Watcher across the ages, linking them in a kind of extended lifespan. It gave Janos a sense of longevity to match his subject's, a share in an expanded existence. And one day it would be his turn to pass it on to another.

Not that he intended to relinquish his post any time soon. The Count was a challenging subject, but Janos had youth and ingenuity on his side. He had managed to stick with the Count half way across the Eurasian continent, even following him to this - to Janos - new unexplored continent of America. What fresh vistas lay before him - what new prey for the Count? It was exhilarating, living a life of vicarious adventure.

And it had its dangers. Immortals did not always restrict their attentions to their own kind. A Watcher who got too curious could end up like the proverbial cat. Janos considered it an occupational hazard, one he could live with. After all hadn't he proved his ability to track the Count even as the Immortal tracked his own prey - all unbeknownst to anyone? He was swiftly acquiring a reputation among his peers that one day would rival the great Ian Bancroft or Joe Dawson.

It was over. Janos' calculating eye registered the moment the Englishman lost the battle. A small error, but one the Count seized on and magnified to deadly proportions.

The end came swiftly. The Count dispatched his foe with surgical precision, slicing his head clean off his shoulders. Cavandish's head still wore a sickly smile even as his body slumped to the ground. Janos held his breath.

This was the terrible moment when every electron in his body cried to be free of its mortal bonds. The hairs on his head crackled with electricity, and his whole body tingled. He knew instinctively to plaster himself against the ground, making himself a smaller target than the trees or even the grass. His life depended on it. This close, he could not hope to escape unscathed, should luck go against him.

The Count had not moved from the grassy hollow. He still held his sword but he had not looked at the headless body since it fell. Instead, he waited in patient resignation, for the inevitable, his blade barely brushing the tips of the rippling grass.

A gossamer wraith rose like a tendril of smoke from the headless body at his feet. It twined its way around the Immortal, rising higher into the black night until it towered above him. There was no sound but the shreeking of atoms as they relinquished their electrons...from the nearest copse of trees...a patch of weeds...the grass at Janos' shoulder...

Then the first blinding flash as the maelstrom of energy released from the dead Immortal sucked up a hapless stream of electrons. The crown of the nearest giant pine burst into flame, raining molten drops of resin onto the clearing. Then another and another as lightning licked out from the pillar of fire. Flames danced all around him as Janos drank it in from his worm's eye view.

And at the heart of the maelström twitched the Count, sword raised, taking hit after hit. His body fluttered in a fiery wind, rooted to the spot, an inhuman lightning rod. His mouth was open on a bestial cry, but the winds from hell whipped the sound away from Janos' ears.

As his own cries were swallowed up and whisked away.

Too much - too much energy! Janos smelled the acrid odor as his own clothes began to smolder. He had to get away. If his body burst into flames, the chronicle would be lost!

Janos scrabbled to his knees, jerked at a sudden jolt, then hit the blackened ground, rolling back down the hill he'd climbed with such anticipation minutes earlier. He rolled like a dead log, not daring to breathe, until he crashed into the base of a tree. It knocked the super-heated air from his lungs, and for several moments he lay there, gasping in the earthy loam of the forest floor. Tears from grass smoke stung his eyes as the Quickening played itself in after images across his field of vision.

Gradually the fiery tendrils faded from his sight as his breathing slowed to normal. Janos climbed shakily to his feet, buttressed by the tree. With a quick glance back toward the flickering clearing, he ran a shaky hand through his singed hair and grinned. If he weren't clean-shaven, he certainly would have singed his whiskers that time.

He checked to see the chronicle was undamaged in its pouch, then hobbled away from his Immortal as fast as his rubbery legs would take him.

#

Joe Dawson polished glasses behind the bar, surveying his domain with - overall - a sense of satisfaction. _ JOE'S_ was a moderate success for a bluesy kind of jazz bar - just enough patronage to pay the bills, but not so much he was wedded to the place. He never knew when MacLeod might get it in his head to go abroad for a week or a decade. As his Watcher, Joe had to follow...or find someone who could.

It was the little things that made up the whole, whether polishing glasses or dusting books - or shivering in a dank back alley - Joe had always been content to put in his time.

He'd put in better than fifteen years on Mac alone. He knew his Immortal's habits and handicaps better than he knew himself. And now that he'd crossed the line between observer and the observed, he was free to pick his brains as well.

He knew his - situation - was not without controversy. Hell, he never would have spoken to the Highlander at all, if Mac hadn't come searching for the Watchers with murderous intent. The day MacLeod waltzed into his bookstore carrying the fabled Fifth Chronicle of Darius was as big a shock to Joe as it was to the Immortal. But Joe was never one to shirk from conflict. And though MacLeod might easily have killed the pesky salt-and-pepper-bearded antiquarian who stood so precariously on his pins, he let him live. And so began the strangest acquaintance in centuries.

Their friendship came at a high cost - one Joe paid periodically with bouts of conscience over his broken vow and split loyalty. The Watcher Organization was his lifeline - had been since that pivotal day in Nam when he'd chosen life without legs to a bullet in the head. An irritating young field agent named Ian Bancroft, with an uncanny grasp of Joe's crisis, had opened his eyes on new vistas. That day Joe embarked on a life of intrigue and adventure, boredom and ennui - depending on the circumstance and who was asking - and he hadn't looked back.

Only sometimes in the lees of the night, when phantom pains chased elusive dreams, his shattered oath of silence shouted down the tenuous cries of friendship that linked him to Duncan MacLeod. Those nights were the worst, when he woke twisted in bed sheets and drenched in his own acrid sweat. Which was the greater good; to whom did he owe the greater loyalty?

It was not for Joe Dawson to say. And so he kept his own counsel and muddled along, doing the best he could.

So far so good. He was still here, tending bar and collating his data as mother hen for this sector. He still watched the Highlander, recording only the relevant bits in his Watcher Chronicle, while the rest wrote itself on his soul.

Now as his gaze washed over the evening's crowd, it came to rest on a gangling youth at a corner table. He nursed a beer Joe hoped someone carded him for and pretended to listen to the band, but his attention was divided between the door and the bar.

Joe knew the look. Another baby chick, waiting his opportunity to check in. He didn't recognize the face; not a local. Well, Immortals knew no boundaries - the kid could be anyone's Watcher. Younger than Joe liked to see them - the young ones knew no bounds, either. It wasn't cost-effective to recruit a Watcher before age twenty-five or so. The rash ones tended to weed themselves out before they acquired a healthy sixth-sense for self-preservation.

This one had eager eyes. A bad sign.

Joe put down his rag and reached for his cane. He'd better let the kid report before he popped a gut.

The young man started to rise, but Joe waved him down.

"Relax, kid. We can talk here. No one can hear us over the music." He lowered himself on to a chair, hooking his cane on the back. "I'm Joe Dawson."

He held out his hand - his left hand - palm up, exposing his wrist. The young man studied the tri-foil tattoo carefully, then pushed the sleeve up from his right wrist, to reveal an identical mark. "Janos Speros," he said solemnly, ducking his head in a brief nod.

"Welcome to _JOE'S_, Janos." Joe liked playing the host. The Watcher Organization might have bank-rolled this location, but it was his bar, and he was proud of it. "What brings you so far from home?"

Janos relaxed, visibly expanding. "Aldur Petrovic," he smiled, watching for Joe's reaction to the name.

"The Count." A cascade of emotions washed over him, just behind his eyes, but Joe knew how to play poker. Petrovic had been known to decimate a region of its Immortals. Joe was certain to be making new assignments. He just hoped-

No, it was not his place. He was a Watcher, and he had no right even hoping for an outcome, once a challenge was proffered. Mac might be his friend, but he was also a Player in the Game, who would fight when challenged.

A Watcher's place was to watch and record, and if it fell to Joe to pen the last line in the Highlander's chronicle, so be it.

"Ya, the Count." Janos beamed with proprietary pride. He knew the name struck fear, and he took obvious pleasure in it.

Joe frowned, noting the signs of possible infatuation. "It isn't good to get too attached, son," he chided, but the kid blew him off. How did you dissuade someone from hero worship when the object of his attention was a demigod?

Immortals by their very nature attained heroic proportion. What sports figure or rock star could compete with a race of creatures who lived forever, only succumbing to mortality with the severing of their heads? Legends grew up around them. Some, like Duncan and Darius, lived up to such homage. Others, like the Count, were less worthy.

But there was no telling the kid that. He drew his sense of self-worth from the relationship. Joe really hated to see that in a Watcher. Maybe he should recommend reassignment. Better keep his eye on the kid and see how he handled himself.

Joe took a closer look at Janos, who stiffened and bore the appraisal with a hauty air. A patch of scalp showed frizzing, and there was a burn mark on his cheek, near his right ear. "Been playing it a little close, haven't you, kid? Looks like you got fried."

"I do my job." A sly grin wormed its way from the corners of his mouth. "Perhaps I do too good a job, no? But I am still here. And maybe it is you who will be needing reassignment, when my Count comes after your Highlander."

Joe shook his head and gave the kid a sour look. "He's not my Highlander, any more than he's your Count. I'd remember that Janos, if I were you. Believe me, kid, you'll live longer."

He heaved himself up from the chair and lurched away. The kid did need watching closely. Attachment could dull the edge - who knew better than Joe, who worked constantly to whet his? Immortals were not large pets. They were dangerous, wild beasts who could turn on the unwary or inattentive.

Janos might need rescuing from himself. He'd see if Mike was free for a little extra recon tomorrow. Then he remembered: Richie Ryan was back in town and Mike would have his hands full just keeping tabs on the young Immortal.

Richie. No older than Janos, and fated to remain so - for as long as he could keep his head. But with the Count in town...

Joe shook his head. Oh, it didn't pay to get too close to demigods. It didn't pay at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Woodland Glen - Somewhere Outside Seattle, WA

The crime scene was fairly picked over by the time the FBI team arrived. Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully were used to that. No one called in the FBI until things got sticky, or complicated, or in their case, weird.

Mulder was used to that, too. He considered himself the last bastion of defense against the unknown. Of course he kept his thoughts to himself - he was already called Spooky behind his back.

He picked his footing carefully - there were a lot of crispy critters underfoot. It looked like a localized forest fire had erupted and burned itself out in the space of fifty feet. Strange in and of itself.

If you didn't take the decapitated corpse into account. That kicked it over the edge into an X-File, Mulder's pet name for the assignments that always found their way to himself and Scully.

"What do you make of all the bbq'd beasties, Scully?" he asked his partner, nudging a squirrel-like shape with the toe of his black Oxfords.

She rose from her examination of the body, coming no higher than his collarbone. "I'm more interested in our headless victim," she replied, pulling off rubber gloves and stuffing them into the pockets of her voluminous camel-colored coat. "No blood to speak of, either in the body or around it. And of course, no head."

"No murder weapon, either," he added. "Unless it burned up in the fire."

Scully shook her head, causing her red-gold hair to brush her collar. "Whatever did that was razor sharp. A sword or a machete, most likely."

"Ok. So whoever did it took the murder weapon with him. Along with the head? Grizzly souvenir, don't you think?"

"Maybe he wanted to forestall identification."

Mulder shook his dark, close-cropped head, pulling the victim's wallet out of the manilla evidence envelope. He flipped it open with leather-gloved hands and showed Scully the driver's license. "Can't say he looks better in person," Mulder quipped with a hint of a smile.

Scully was used to her partner's macabre humor and ignored it. "Robert Cavendish. Thirty-five."

"Ah, here's his passport. English. Hmmm," he said, turning pages. "The guy got around. Wonder what he was doing here in Seattle?"

"Here's something," Scully said, holding a white card carefully by the corners. "'Edged Antiques, D. MacLeod, by inquiry,' and an address."

"'Edged Antiques,' hmmm? As in swords?" He raised one dark brown eyebrow.

"Might be worth an inquiry." Scully returned the card to the envelope, after noting the address in her notebook.

"Inquiring minds want to know," Mulder said in agreement. He made some notes of his own and returned the rest of the evidence to the envelope, then to a passing policeman.

"This barely rates an X-File, you know," Scully called after him, hurrying to keep up with his long-legged stride as they returned to their rental car.

"A fire that puts itself out?" Mulder gave her a hurt look.

Scully bent down to run her hand over an uncharred patch of grass. "Wet grass burns poorly."

"And what started it in the first place?" He persisted. "Witnesses reported seeing a localized electrical storm."

"This is the Pacific North West. It rains here a lot." She eyed the grey sky with apprehension.

"But it wasn't raining last night. Meteorology says it rained briefly in the early morning, after the mysterious light show."

"Transformer blow-out, then."

"The electric company says no. Besides, I don't see any wires."

She dutifully looked around. Blasted trees and charred grass in a rough circle around the dead body, but no visible cause.

"And there's this," he said, pouring something cool and lightweight into her hand.

Scully rolled the smooth, golden tear drops around on her palm. "Tree sap?"

Mulder nodded. "Amber. Or it will be, in a few million years. Whatever the power source, it blasted a tree with enough force to boil the sap. The ground is covered with these."

"That happens in a forest fire," Scully said. "When it's hot enough, the trees just explode." She trailed off in thought.

"Interesting, isn't it?" Mulder walked around to the driver's door. They were through here.

Scully pocketed the amber tree tears and got into the passenger seat in silence.

#

DiSalvo's Gym - Industrial District

The neighborhood didn't look promising. Too many boarded up buildings and rough-looking characters hanging about. They got out of the car and studied the street address.

Scully consulted her notebook. "This can't be the right address."

Mulder scanned the four-story red brick building with the freshly painted white trim. Obviously a going concern, but the sign over the door said "DiSalvo's," not "D. MacLeod." And it was a dojo, not an antique store.

"Perhaps they train with edged katanas?" Mulder remarked, trying to picture such an absurdity.

Undaunted, they climbed the steps to the second-story entrance and went in.

The scent of stale sweat permeated the pores of the place that no coat of fresh paint could ever erase. Mulder wrinkled his nose, transported to all the gyms he had ever known. He looked down at Scully, but she was used to far nastier smells in the course of her work and didn't seem to notice.

The foyer lead to a set of wood and glass doors which opened on a large training room of polished wood and apparatus. In the back, past straining bodies and clanging weights, was a half-glass-walled office.

The agents forged ahead, incongruously over-dressed in their long street coats amid the half-naked, sweating flesh of a dozen serious athletes. No one paid them the slightest attention.

A pleasant fellow in a muscle shirt with a copper sheen to his bulging biceps looked up from the desk as they entered. "Can I help you?" he asked, as if he saw their like every day.

Mulder flashed his credentials. "Special Agents Mulder and Scully. The sign said 'DiSalvo's,'" he said, cocking his head at the front of the building.

"I'm Charlie DiSalvo," the man said, rising to the balls of his feet, prepared for anything. "What can I do for you?"

Scully moved around her partner. "Actually, it's a Mr. MacLeod we're looking for. We were given this address."

"Well you just missed him," DiSalvo said, smiling broadly. Someone else's problem often brought that relief response when the FBI was involved. They were used to it.

Mulder glanced at Scully. "So he is at this address?"

"Well, yeah," DiSalvo said. "He owns the dojo. You didn't know that?" It was his turn to look puzzled.

Scully moved smoothly in. "We understood Mr. MacLeod to be an antique dealer."

"Oh that. He used to be. Or I guess he still is. There used to be a shop uptown, but his partner died."

The agents exchanged a pointed look.

"A Mr. Cavandish?" Mulder asked casually.

"No," DiSalvo frowned. "I think her name was Tessa something." He smiled, cheerful once more. "But listen, I'll tell MacLeod you were looking for him."

"If you would give him this," Scully said, handing him her card. "We need to speak to him. It's important."

"Sure thing," DiSalvo said, turning the card over in his strong fingers. "Just as soon as he gets back."

"You wouldn't know where we could reach him?" Mulder tried once more from the door.

"'Fraid not," DiSalvo said, smiling pleasantly. He waved the card.

They returned to the car.

"Why do I have the feeling he was being less than helpful?" Mulder asked his partner as they negotiated through traffic back to headquarters.

"Maybe the autopsy will reveal something useful," Scully said, pursuing a line of investigation more familiar to her.

"Like cause of death?" Mulder couldn't help smiling.

"Like why the body wasn't burned in the fire," Scully countered equably. "And what he had for dinner. I could go on."

"I'll wait for the report," Mulder said, swallowing hard. "I want to keep my lunch."

They parted in the halls of the local FBI offices, Mulder heading for a computer, while Scully made her way to the bowels of the building and forensics.

She shed her woolen coat for a lab coat and asked an attendant to prep the body. While she waited, she went over the victim's clothes again. They were charred in places. Dried blood caked a number of tears in the shirt and pants. But there was nothing like the volume of blood she expected from such a massive wound when the head was severed. The collar of the shirt wasn't even stained.

The attendant wheeled the body over to the operating arena, and Scully returned the clothes to their locker.

The victim was large, even minus the head, and well-toned. Another athlete, she mused, like the ones in the gym. Beyond fit - almost to body-building condition. How could such a man be overtaken by anyone, even another fit individual? In combat?

There were a number of small cuts, and one large gash across the abdomen, to match the rents in the clothing. Sword cuts? Had their victim lost his head in a duel to the death?

Why? And where had the blood gone?

Scully examined the cut surface of the neck. Very peculiar. It was almost as if the wound had been cauterised, but how? Surely not by the fire. The rest of the body showed no signs of charring, unlike the clothes.

Scully donned her glasses and switched on the tape recorder.

"Autopsy of Robert Cavandish," she began. "Decapitation of the body shows..."


	3. Chapter 3

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod watched his hereditary enemy from a discreet distance. The darkened hall afforded him anonymity while the stage lights illuminated the object of his rapt attention.

Dr. Phyllis Browning was aware of his presence. She searched the rows of students and guests, looking for the Immortal who had sent her Senses jangling. When her elegant head turned his way, Duncan nodded, though he knew she still hadn't seen him. Satisfied at least that she had detected the source of the interruption, she continued with her lecture on pre-Christian relics of Great Britain.

As Curator of the traveling exhibit, she had a great deal to say about the pieces in the collection, and her passion for her subject stimulated her audience. There was a lively question and answer session at the end, but Duncan slipped out early. He wanted their meeting to be private.

He waited for her outside the stage entrance, in the shadow of an ancient oak. She wasn't long, and she came alone, carefully searching the quadrangle for passers-by. The lecture crowd had dissipated and they were unobserved.

She carried herself fearlessly, hands at her side, but empty and ready for defense. The light escaping from the hall backlit her hair like a golden nimbus, casting her long shadow before her as her long skirts swished and her shoes clicked on the paving stones.

She came to the very edge of the shadow and raised her voice, calling with confidence into the blackness. "I am-"

Duncan stepped out of the shadow. "Hello, Phyllis," he smiled, sweeping her into his arms and whirling her in a dizzying embrace.

"Duncan," she breathed, when he set her down. "How long has it been?" She caught up his dark ponytail in her long fingers. "You've let your hair grow again. You were always the barbarian," she teased.

"And you," he taunted in kind, "Are as aristocratic as ever, m'lady." He kissed her hand, before slipping it under his arm. "So, show me this magnificent find of yours. Is it truly as old as the hills?"

She crinkled up her face. "Older. And in perfect condition-" she eyed him with mischief, "-perfect for an old relic."

"Who are you calling an old relic?" He contrived to look offended. "You're two hundred years older than I am."

"And you never let me forget it," she pouted back in kind.

They returned to the hall and her prized exhibit. The cases were softly spotlit, flashing with bits of bright enamel and burnished gold. Circlets and bracelets and buckle plates to dazzle the eye. But the object that drew their full attention was dull by comparison. Off to the side, almost as an afterthought, was a single sword, half eaten away by rust and verdigrised with age, it still sported a tang and one good edge. There was no hilt, and whatever jewels it once may have had were long gone.

"May I?" Duncan asked, and she nodded. He lifted the blade carefully from its rest, gauging its balance. He ran his fingers down the center of the blade until they encountered the worse corrosion.

"There is an inscription here," he said, looking at her with surprise.

"I know," she beamed. "Can you read it?"

He studied the barely perceptible angular markings. "Runes of some sort," he said.

She let her eyes roll toward the ceiling. "Still the barbarian. Of course they're Runes. But what do they say?"

He looked chagrined. "I dinna learn to read until the Renaissance."

"Well, you've had plenty of time since then." But she took pity on him. "It says, roughly, 'I drink to eternal life,' or 'immortality,' depending on your interpretation." Her eyes danced with passion. "Duncan, I think it belonged to one of us!"

"How can you be sure?" He'd seen a lot of swords in his long career, and never had he been able to ascertain a weapon's pedigree by mere touch.

"I can feel it. Can't you?" She seemed disappointed at his response. "Oh well, it doesn't matter. But isn't it lovely?"

He had to agree there. It was a truly fine specimen of its age, and one he wouldn't mind adding to his private collection.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to part with it?" He swung it in a slow arc above his head.

Before she could reply, they were interrupted.

"Oh there you are, Dr. Browning. The Chancellor was hoping to speak with you - at the reception." The student wore an air of mild exasperation. He eyed the blade in MacLeod's hands with suspicion.

"Duncan," she said, turning pleading eyes toward him. "I forgot all about the reception. Do come."

He took his cue to leave, replacing the sword and raising her hand to his lips. "Another time, Phyllis. You have your public to dazzle."

"Tomorrow, then," she called after him.

He waved ascent and slipped out into the cool night air. Tomorrow would be interesting. Their past encounters had sometimes been stormy, often passionate, but always interesting.

MacLeod cut across the campus to the parking lot. His was the only car on the lower level. Checking automatically for surveillance, he removed his sword and placed it on the floor of the seat beside him. Gone were the days when he could stride openly through the streets with it strapped to his side. Now a long duster hid his katana from prying eyes, enabling him to walk in safety. But he had yet to devise a way of wearing his sword in a car without slashing the upholstery.

MacLeod sighed as he put the engine in gear. This was an inelegant age, for all its technological advancement. A horse never had to negotiate speed bumps, he thought as he tooled his Thunderbird out into traffic.

#

"Good night, Dr. Browning." The Chancellor held the door for Phyllis. "Are you sure you don't want me to arrange for a car?"

"No, thank you. I prefer to walk." The truth be known, she wanted to check on her exhibit one last time before turning in. There was always one more thing to arrange before an opening, and she didn't want to be disturbed. Even by well-meaning faculty aids, as the case would be in the morning.

"Tomorrow, then," he said, heading gratefully for the faculty parking lot.

Phyllis turned up the flagstone walk to the exhibit hall, going over a few changes in her head. Campus lighting was sparse, reminding her more of gaslight of another era. Pools of yellow illumination were far outmatched by patches of darkness. Phyllis moved in and out of them like a figure in a kinescope. In her modified Gibson Girl, long skirts and high-buttoned coat, she might have been one.

There was a light in the exhibit hall. So consumed was she in her planning, she was quite taken by surprise when her Senses were jangled for the third time this night. Phyllis reached instinctively for the short sword under her coat, then drew her hand away with a smile.

She let herself into the hall with her own key. How had he gotten in? Well, there wasn't a lock built that could keep Duncan MacLeod out of a treasure room - or a bedroom.

"So, you couldn't resist the sword, afterall. I'm afraid I can't part with it just yet, Duncan-" She stopped speaking when she saw him.

Her lip curled. "Petrovic." Three syllables were hardly enough to convey the animosity she held for the man. Her heart sank, even as her chin rose a fraction higher.

"My dear Phyllis. So good to see you, too." He swept her a mocking bow, brushing the floor with his fingertips. When he rose, his sword was in his hand. He twirled it like a walking cane, resting his hand lightly on the pommel. "Don't tell me that Highland buffoon has made designs on you before me? I hate to poach."

Phyllis knew she shouldn't let him goad her into the first move. She bit down her anger and smiled sweetly. "We merely discussed antiquities."

"Like this one?" He lifted the bog finding by the tang and cut the air with it a few times. "It lacks a great deal of its former glory, I'm afraid. I'll wager it still cuts, though. Care to put it to the test?"

Phyllis schooled her breathing as her teacher had taught her, six hundred years ago, in the courtyard of her family's border manor. Then she only faced Scots raiders. And when she killed them, they stayed dead.

She knew for certain, if she did not kill Petrovic, it was she who would be staying dead.

Well, this arena was as good as any other. She at least knew its pitfalls, having worked to set it up.

She gave him her best hauty glare.

A smile flicked across his lips. He lifted his cavalier blade. "Shall we dance?"

Phyllis drew her good English short sword. "Still the clown, Aldur?" She lunged for his heart.

But Petrovic was already in the air, leaping backwards over a low display case. Phyllis moved right, but the Count moved left, putting another pedestal between them.

Phyllis knew this cat and mouse game all too well. She had watched, helpless to intervene, when Stephan fought the beast two centuries earlier. Just as now, the Count sought to tire his opponent with fruitless movement, wearing him down for the kill. It had worked then with her lover, but it would not work now.

She put up her blade. "Fight me, Petrovic, or I'm leaving. I will not play your game."

Petrovic truly smiled, baring perfect teeth. It made Phyllis shiver. "Your wish is my truest desire," he said, saluting her with his blade.

Then he was somersaulting over the display case to land at her feet. She barely got her weapon up in time. Sparks flew from the encounter, echoed around the room in glints of blue and red and gold.

She had no time to think, she could only react. And he was pushing her steadily back. Now she tried in vain to put something between them, but always there was his sword to parry first. He called all the moves in their deadly dance, as she knew would be the case from the beginning.

She had never been a serious player, only fighting when she must. Somehow, she had always managed to avoid the really awesome fighters, relying too much, perhaps on other attributes to dissuade them. But it had never been a question with the Count. She had hated him from their very first meeting. And now this would be their last.

His sword strokes hit like hammer blows, bending her to his will like a pliant piece of metal. Her sword arm ached from the blows, taking fractionally longer each time to recover, barely meeting the next attack.

She had no regrets, only a saddness at the loss of her work. She would miss the passionate pursuit. She thought fleetingly of Duncan. She'd miss him, too.

He tired of toying with her. Or he may have taken pity on her. Either way, he ended it.

Phyllis felt the white-hot surge as his sword drove effortlessly through her body. She tried to draw breath and could not. The room drew close around her as she sank to her knees, cupping the guard he'd driven to her chest in her shaking hands.

He stepped back in triumph, admiring his handiwork before claiming his reward. She watched, fascinated, as his face suffused with joy. Did the damned creature love anything so well as death?

Their eyes met and her heart grew cold. "Finish it," she mouthed, lacking the air for more.

He reached for the basket hilt and withdrew his blade for the final cut. Phyllis gasped in spite of herself, as air rushed into her tortured lungs.

He raised the sword high into the air, and paused.

"But no," he said. "This will not do." He dropped his weapon and moved quickly out of her field of view.

It was not like the Count. Was he going to let her live? She had barely begun to hope, when he returned to stand before her.

He held the bog sword in his hands. "This is much better. More fitting, don't you think?"

Tears washed his visage from her eyes. The bastard-

The good, sharp edge of the ancient sword lobbed her head from her shoulders. It hit the floor as her body settled, rolling to rest against the base of a display case.

The Quickening that followed shattered all the glass in the hall.

#

Janos managed to avoid the worst of the effects, shielded from flying glass behind the massive exhibit door. He'd stuck it out to the end this time. Not so kinetic as Cavandish's Quickening, but every bit as exhilarating.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand. Gods, he could get used to this. No wonder the old-time Watchers held on so tenaciously to their powerful Immortals. The rush was hyperbolic.

What it must be like for the Immortals-! To absorb that much energy into their bodies and walk away unscathed. No, transcended. They thrived on a force that would reduce an ordinary man to cinders.

The Count stirred himself, waking from his enervating stupor, and Janos drew farther into the shadows.

Shaking it off like a greyhound, Petrovic stretched luxuriantly, then stooped to retrieve his fallen sword. Odd, that - forsaking his excellent blade for that rusty old relic in the Quickening. But the Count must have his reasons.

Janos peered around the brass-tooled door as the Count strode past, his step light. He whistled gayly, twirling his sword like a walking stick. You could never guess he'd just beheaded a beautiful woman and left her corpse to lie among the shards of her shattered treasures.

Janos drew breath again when the Count slipped into the night. Then he followed at a more discreet gait, keeping to the shadows of the trees.

Petrovic chose the lighted path, fearless of discovery. What was the world of mere men to him? Once he slowed, cocking his fine head to one side. Janos melted farther into the shadows, not wanting to draw any attention his way. But whatever it was, the Count lost interest and moved on.

And Janos moved after him, a shadow among shadows. A Watcher. He pulled his car out into traffic, well behind Petrovic's.

Unbelievably, the Count wasn't through for the night. Instead of returning to his rooms, he headed in to town. Janos began to recognize the neighborhood. Dawson's bar was not too far off.

And neither was the Highlander's lair. Janos gripped the wheel tighter. Two Quickenings in one night?!

But this couldn't be the Count's intention. He couldn't be ready to fight the Highlander - it wasn't his pattern...

Janos parked well away from MacLeod's loft and crept through the adjoining back alleys. The Immortal's building was dark. Did Petrovic mean to rouse him from his bed?

The Count stood below the Highlander's window, waiting placidly. There was no need of knocking; Immortals had their own way of calling to one another. MacLeod would hear the challenge and descend to the alley, or flee.

Janos hoped it was the former. A fight between these two was not to be missed. He secreted himself between trash cans and settled in for the show.

The Count turned slowly, moving in his direction at a casual pace. Janos pulled back, flattening himself against the rough brick wall. Was the Highlander not at home-?

Petrovic paused then, and turned brilliant eyes on Janos's hiding place.

"Ah...the little man who wasn't there. I have been meaning to have this talk for some while now." The Count smiled with perfect teeth. "I can't think of a better opportunity, can you?"

#

MacLeod felt Richie's approach as the young Immortal rode the service elevator up to the loft.

"Whatever it is, Richie, I don't have time." Even as he said it, Mac knew it wouldn't dissuade his protegé. Nothing ever did.

He stepped into the elevator as Richie emerged. The kid made a walking pivot and followed him back in. "This'll be real quick, Mac." he promised. He pulled the grate closed helpfully.

Mac looked heavenward. "What is it?"

Richie fished a small white card out of his leather jacket. "Charlie gave me this for you last night. You had visitors." His eyebrows danced provocatively.

The Highlander took the card with only mild curiosity. Richie, watching for a response, was disappointed.

"Mac, it's the FBI!"

"I can read," he said, tucking the card into his pants pocket.

Richie was fit to burst. "Aren't you the least bit curious what they want?"

MacLeod shrugged. "Not particularly."

The young Immortal threw himself back against the wall of the elevator. "I don't get you, Mac. The _FBI_ wants to speak to you and you don't care?"

"Richie, it can't be anything to do with us." Meaning Immortals. "I don't have time right now, anyway." He straightened his blue silk shirt and adjusted the duster over one arm, concealing his sword.

For the first time, Richie noticed how Mac was dressed. "Ooohoo. Hot breakfast date?"

"No. I'm just meeting Phyllis at the opening of her Treasures of Ancient Britain exhibit at the University. And I'm late." He stepped out into the empty dojo and started for the door.

Richie stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Phyllis Browning? _Dr._ Phyllis Browning? Mac- Don't you know? It's all over the news."

"Know what?" he asked more in exasperation than interest.

Richie looked sick. "Mac, she's dead. She was attacked last night at the University. She was one of us, right?"

MacLeod stared at his young friend in disbelief. Then he turned and sprinted for the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Exhibit Hall - University Campus

Mulder answered her second knock, toothbrush in hand.

"There's been another beheading," Scully said.

They had no trouble finding the crime scene. All the windows on the north side of the building were blown out. The exhibit hall looked like a concussion bomb had gone off inside. Glass crunched underfoot everywhere from shattered display cases.

"Look at this, Scully," Mulder said, holding up a chunk of molten slag. It took a lot of heat to do that to glass. He picked up a twisted piece of yellow metal with smears of color. "The plates have been fused together on this thing, whatever it is."

"Bronze age scapula," she said off-hand, glancing up from the latest body. She balanced carefully on her haunches trying not to get glass shards in the knees of her trousers. This one was a woman, the curator of the exhibit, apparently.

"This may be the murder weapon," Mulder said, lifting the remains of a sword from the rest of the debris. It, too, was shattered, but not from the general mayhem that trashed the hall.

"Looks like stress fractures," Scully agreed, noting the brittle condition of the remaining piece. "Crude smelting techniques would leave impurities in the metal, possibly causing it to shatter on impact."

Mulder bagged it for evidence. Scully left the body to the forensic photographer to finish his work. Grizzly as the scene was, there was still very little blood.

And again, no head.

"Police have been all over the building," Mulder said. "It didn't roll away on its own."

"What would he want with the heads?"

"Natives of Papua, New Guinea, used to display the severed heads of their enemies, as a warning to potential enemies. Of course, they shrank them first."

"What do our victims have in common?" she continued vocalizing her thoughts.

"Besides desecration of the bodies and obliteration of the evidence?" Mulder scanned the resultant vandalism to the collection. "Antiques?" he ventured.

Scully nodded. "Edged Antiques," she amended.

The Chancellor of the University was wringing his hands near the entrance. He surveyed the damage to his domain with horror. "This is the worst disaster imaginable," he wailed. "The publicity alone...and the bill for the glaser's..." He realized he was babbling and trailed off.

"Did Dr. Browning seem worried about anything?" Mulder asked.

The Chancellor pulled his eyes back from his ruined display hall. "What? Oh, no, I don't think so. She was eager to open. Now, I suppose, we never will..."

The head of the archaeology department sponsoring Dr. Browning's lecture series was less distracted, though no less distressed.

"Dr. Browning was such a kind soul," the woman sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "She had an absolute passion for her work. All this vandalism would have distressed her so."

"Did Dr. Browning have any visitors after the lecture?" Scully asked.

"Why, yes," the woman said, remembering. "James did say there was someone in here with her last night, when I sent him to bring her to the reception. I believe he said it was Mr. MacLeod."

"MacLeod?" Scully and Mulder said together.

"Why, yes. Do you know him?" she asked, brightening. "Such a lovely man. One of our quiet contributors. He helped sponsor Dr. Browning's exhibit. He has a true appreciation for antiquities. I'm trying to convince him to teach a class next semester."

The agents exchanged quizzical looks. Their elusive antiques dealer cum dojo owner was beginning to pique their interest.

"Why, there he is now," the woman cried. "Poor man, finding his friend this way."

A tall man in a black duster, with long, dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, picked his way through the detritus. He came to the body and halted, standing motionless and without emotion. For a good friend, he hid his feelings well. His hard, straight features might have been chiseled from alabaster.

Mulder flanked their quarry while Scully took the direct approach.

"Did you know the victim, Mr. MacLeod?" she asked, flashing her badge by way of introduction.

He turned smoldering dark eyes her way, taking a fraction to focus on her face. "Yes. Phyllis - Dr. Browning and I were old friends."

"You were here last night." Mulder fired the accusation from the other side, hoping to catch him off balance.

But the athletically built antiques dealer only turned his head smoothly to face this new assault. "That's right. She invited me to view her prized acquisition. A bronze age sword. Where is it?" He cast his eyes about the room. "I don't see it anywhere."

"It's evidence, Mr. MacLeod," Scully said. "It may have been the murder weapon."

Anger flared briefly in his face, dissipating just as quickly. The possibility didn't please him, but it did appear to come as a surprise. "That-would be a great shame," he managed neutrally. "It's value to a collector would be considerably diminished."

"Yourself, for instance?" Mulder pressed.

"I was interested. But Dr. Browning was not inclined to part with the piece." He ducked his head a fraction. "If you'll excuse me."

"We would like to ask you some more questions," Mulder persisted. "About a Robert Cavandish."

MacLeod's dark brows drew together. "Another time," he said, nodding formally.

They watched him leave the hall and exit the building. He seemed in a great hurry to quit the scene of last night's mayhem.

"Did he strike you as a little intense?" Mulder asked his partner.

Scully pursed her lips. "'More in sorrow than in anger.'"

"What?"

"Nothing," she said. She wasn't sure what she meant herself. "I want to run tests on that sword," she said, thinking instead of the work ahead. "There may be microscopic residue along the edge."

"And I'll see where our Dr. Browning has been recently, and if her path crossed with Cavandish's. Let's see if they shared more than the same antique dealer."

Scully got the news on her cell phone, half way to the car.

Another body. This one had managed to keep its head.

#

Back Alley - DiSalvo's Gym

Mulder picked his footing carefully. There was garbage everywhere, and the ground was slick with blood. The victim had tried to scramble over some trash cans when he was cut down.

Cut to ribbons was more like it. Here at least was a normal, albeit gruesome, crime scene. One they could make sense of.

The victim appeared young, perhaps nineteen. It might be an ordinary gang killing, except for the excessively long slashes to the torso. This wasn't done with a knife.

"All the pieces are here," Scully reported, pulling off bloodstained plastic gloves and letting them fall to the ground. From the state of rigor, I'd say it happened a little after midnight."

"What's this?" Mulder bent to retrieve a worn leather book from beneath the body. He tried to leaf through the yellowed pages, but they were gummed together with the victim's blood. There was a curious raised emblem on the cover: a circle enclosing something that looked like a stick-figure drawing of a bird, or a stylized plant.

"Look here, Mulder," Scully said, indicating the same marking on the upraised arm of the victim, at the wrist. "What do you suppose it means?"

"I don't know," he said, tracing the device tooled into the leather with a forefinger. "But what I'd really like to know," he said, glancing up at the back of the dojo. "Is where MacLeod fits into all of this?

"I think it's time to pick him up for questioning."


	5. Chapter 5

Joe didn't like the sound of this at all.

"Are you sure it was Janos? At MacLeod's?"

Mike didn't bother to repeat himself. Dawson heard him correctly the first time.

"This is bad," Joe said, pacing in his syncopated three-legged gait. The sound echoed hollowly through the empty room at this hour of the morning. "Real bad. And the FBI took the Chronicle?"

Mike spread his hands. "There was nothing I could do, Joe. Cops were crawling all over the alley before I could get close. If I hadn't been tailing Ryan, I wouldn't have seen anything at all."

"It's not your fault, Mike. What a mess." He pulled at his manicured, two-toned beard, grimacing. "We've got to get it back."

He lurched for the phone on the end of the bar. "Poor dumb kid - Hello, Barney? Joe here. Listen, we've got a real problem-"

#

FBI Lab - Local Headquarters

They managed to separate the pages of the diary, but that's as far as it would go to give up its secrets. Much of the text was encrypted, and the latest entries were in some Slavic language. Mulder relinquished the book reluctantly to linguistics. They had made one find: an address.

It turned out to be a bar, not far from the antique dealer's place of residence. It didn't even surprise Mulder. This case revolved around the man.

Police hadn't picked him up yet. He hadn't returned to his dojo, coincidentally the latest murder scene, but the locals had it staked out in case. More than likely he had gone to ground, which may or may not stop the killings. Mulder had his own theory on that one.

He rapped loudly on the door to _JOE'S_. After a moment, it was opened by a crusty-looking individual who walked stiffly with a cane. "We're closed," he barked.

Mulder showed him his get-in-free card. The man blinked, seemed to consider, then threw the door wide.

"Come in, Special Agent. What can I do for you?"

Mr. Joe Q. Public, solid citizen. Mulder knew the pose. He followed the man into the bowels of the bar, where two chairs were already pulled out. The rest, Mulder noted, were still stacked on tables around the room. It looked like he wasn't the fellow's first visitor of the day.

"Are you the owner?" Mulder began, pulling out his notebook and placing it on the table.

"That's right," he said. "The name's Joe Dawson." He ran a hand over his greying beard. "May I ask what this is all about?"

"There have been a series of gruesome murders, Mr. Dawson. And your address was on the latest victim." He pulled a Polaroid out of his breast pocket. "Have you ever seen this man before?"

Dawson grimaced. "Not a pretty picture," he said, picking it up for a closer look. "Can't say for sure. We get a lot of young folk in here on weekends. From the University." He placed the picture back on the table.

"Then you don't recognize him."

Dawson pursed his lips and shook his head. "Sorry."

"Then," said Mulder, grasping the man's left wrist and pinning it to the table, palm up. "How do you explain having the same tatoo?"

His face grew dark with suppressed anger, and he wrenched his wrist free. The man was surprisingly strong.

"How should I know?" he said hotly. "Lot's of people have tattoos these days. I hear it's chic." His expressive face twisted in sarcasm, but Mulder was unconvinced.

But he didn't press. Records was searching the archives for a reference; he'd have an answer soon enough. Then he'd ask the question again, downtown.

Mulder played the rest of his hand. "How about these, then." Polaroids of Cavandish and Browning went down on the table.

Dawson was quick. He didn't even blink this time. "That one's the guy on the tv. And this one must be the woman they found murdered at the University." He cocked his eyebrows. "Can't say as I ever saw them before. We get a lot of people through here in a night. Most of them manage to keep their heads while they're here."

Mulder collected his snapshots with a straight face. "Thank you, Mr. Dawson. Here's my card if you have anything further to add."

He started for the door. "Oh, Mr. Dawson," he said, almost as an afterthought. "You haven't seen MacLeod recently, have you?"

Dawson didn't bat an eye. "Not recently, no."

"But you do know him-"

"Yeah. He's a regular. Why?" He made no attempt to hide the fact.

"We just want a word with him. You will call if you see him...?"

"Yeah, sure, sure." Dawson left the card lying on the table as he rose to see his unwanted visitor to the door.

"I can let myself out," Mulder said, heading for the door.

"No trouble, Special Agent," Dawson said, the affable host once again. "Come back when we're open for business, and you can check out the clientele for yourself."

The heavy metal door swung to as his heels crossed the threshold. Mulder felt the whoosh of canned air at his back and smiled to himself. Like the grain of sand in the oyster, a little irritation often brought forth a gem, if left to rub.

#

Joe turned his back on the door and heaved a heartfelt sigh. What an infernal mess. He felt like smashing the nearest row of bar glasses, but he'd have to clean that up, too. It was his nature to be fastidious.

A movement drew his eyes to the shadows by the storage room. Someone was in there. Joe gripped the head of his cane tighter. By god, some sneak thief was about to get the thrashing of his life.

He stumped toward the rear of the bar with murder in his heart.

"Easy, Joe," MacLeod called, stepping into the light. "I hope you don't greet all your guests like that."

"Mac! What are you doing here?" Exasperation stretched his vocal chords to their limit.

"Well, good to see you, too." Mac took the seat the FBI agent had just vacated. Only his eyes belied his calm demeanor.

"You'd better get out of the city, Mac. You're too hot right now. That was the FBI." Joe stood, refusing to sit and chat.

"Have a seat, Joe." The FBI didn't seem to concern him. "I need to know a name." MacLeod toyed with the agent's calling card, turning it end over end.

There was an undercurrent of dread purpose to the Immortal, beneath his calm facade. Joe sat down, loath to know what MacLeod wanted from him.

"Mac, I can't-"

"Who is he, Joe?" His eyes burned like banked coals.

"Dammit, Mac," the Watcher hissed, pulled this way and that by split loyalties. "You know I can't." There were limits to the oaths he'd break.

The Highlander slowly unclenched his fist. Half-moons left by his nails sizzled and faded away. "Joe, I'm not asking you to tell me where he is. Just who did it."

Joe shifted in his chair. "Don't ask me, Mac."

MacLeod steepled his fingers, resting his chin on the points. He stared at the table in the way Joe had seen him do when his mind slipped back in time. Joe knew MacLeod and Dr. Browning went back a long way together. Their meetings were often tempestuous, but they had never been enemies.

When Mac looked up, his eyes were haunted. "She was one of the good ones, Joe. I can't let her death go unanswered."

Joe stared long and hard into the Immortal's soul. The Watcher in him did battle with the friend. "And if he's better than you are?"

MacLeod didn't pause. "Then he's better than I am. 'There can be only one.'"

The hope and the curse of every Immortal.

"I deserve my chance at him, Joe. And I owe it to Phyllis."

Joe turned his head away. MacLeod's emotions were too raw and bestial, not meant to be shared with mortals.

"All right," he said, the Watcher in him cursing his weakness. It wasn't like the Count would skip town without making his own challenge anyway. Mac deserved fair warning, the friend in him shouted back.

"Petrovic," Joe said, forcing himself to meet Mac's eyes. "Aldur-"

"The Horseman." MacLeod used the older title. But of course, he had last fought the Immortal when he was the mounted scourge of half of Europe. Sheer luck had spared the Highlander that time. Joe knew it was too much to hope for a second lucky break.

Joe nodded, unable to keep his true feelings from escaping.

A slow, mirthless smile - a death's head grin - spread across MacLeod's features. "Don't shelve my chronicle yet, Joe. I've learned a few tricks in four hundred years."

Joe attempted a laugh and fell short. "Watch yourself with this one, MacLeod."

MacLeod nodded, rose to leave. "Thanks for everything, Dawson," he said, clasping the older-looking man on the back. "He really has to be stopped."

Joe nodded agreement. "Wait, Mac-" In for a penny, in for a pound. He rose stiffly to his feet. "If I hear any more, I'll let you know."

MacLeod paused, glancing over his shoulder, and nodded. If he knew how much that offer had cost his friend, the Immortal gave no sign. "See ya around, Dawson."

Joe watched MacLeod walk out of his establishment, possibly for the last time. He'd lost assignments before.

"Take care, my friend," he said as the door closed between them.

The rules be damned. Losing MacLeod would hurt like hell.


	6. Chapter 6

FBI Headquarters - Seattle, WA

Scully found Mulder in a cubicle, trying to tease information out of a computer terminal.

"There doesn't seem to be any information on that stick-bird tattoo," he groused, shutting down the screen. "Maybe I should try tattoo parlors. What have you got?"

Scully handed him the report. "We managed to lift a good boot print from the alley, to match a partial we got from the first site. It's a fairly exclusive riding boot. Old World royalty and certified upper crust."

Mulder brightened. A tangible clue in this surrealistic case. There was a picture of the make and style of boot, with a list of exclusive shops that carried it. None were local, but someone might know who owned a pair.

"I was going to pay another visit to _JOE'S_ this evening. Why don't I meet you there later."

"After this latest autopsy," Scully agreed. "I suspect the same sword may have been used on victims one and three. I want to do microscopic analysis of the wounds." She left him to pursue her own line of inquiry.

Mulder got a list of tack shops and riding stables from the Seattle phone book and began his leg work. Might as well take them in geographical order, starting with the nearest and working out of town.

Well, it beat the last time he had to canvas leather shops. He'd really gotten an education on that case. X-Files were never dull.

#

Petrovic flew over the trail, a blur on horseback. Man and beast were one, as they were meant to be. Thought flowed into execution without pause. They were linked body and soul.

Seldom did Petrovic experience the true union of horse and rider these days. Well-trained mounts were hard to come by while he traveled, when he was denied the pleasure of his own stable. It would be years before he could devote his attentions to developing the line. By then his prize horses would be long dead, only their traits living on in their progeny.

So it was with all the fine specimens he had owned, going back centuries. His were the finest horses alive, kept for his singular pleasure.

His current mount reminded Petrovic of the great-grand-sire of his current favorite. A clever mind, but one he could bend to his wishes. The merest suggestion of a command brought immediate compliance. A well-disciplined mount. If he remained in the area for long, he might buy the animal for his exclusive use.

It was exhilarating, this flight over all terrain at full gallop, heedless of danger. The horse felt it, anticipating his moves. It was almost as heady as a good Quickening. It left him drained and invigorated at the same time.

Petrovic, breathing hard, left the lathered horse in the care of a groom and returned to his suite of rooms at the club house. A shower, a light supper, and then the hunt would begin again. Such a rich field from which to choose.

He stripped off his riding clothes and eased his muscles in the hot spray. Sweat and tension washed away.

He had his opponent for the night. As his body luxuriated in the shower, Petrovic prepared his mind for the coming battle with Richie Ryan.

Petrovic liked to let the green Immortals season a few decades or centuries, to make the battle worth the effort. Like a fine wine, an Immortal took on a distinct flavor with age. Brash and barely out of his infancy, Ryan was hardly worth the time it would take to dispatch him. But he would nevertheless serve his purpose.

Petrovic smiled smugly. Once he had eliminated all of the Immortals close to MacLeod, the Highlander himself would be ready. Revenge sweetened the blood.

Fresh clothes awaited his emergence from the shower, along side his polished boots. The service at least was up to his standards. Perhaps he would buy the hunt club as well as the horse.

Once he had dispatched MacLeod, of course. He had no desire to inhabit a region while another Immortal still drew breath.

#

_JOE'S_ Place - Seattle, WA

The blues bar drew a mixed crowd, Scully noted, taking a relatively quiet corner table. At least she wasn't right on top of the band. Half the patrons looked old enough to be the parents of the other half, but everyone seemed to be enjoying the music. There was little mingling between the two groups.

Scully nursed a mineral water while she waited for her partner. She had some success to report on the latest autopsy - the kid in the alley was killed with the same weapon that killed the man in the woods. And on a hunch, she examined the incidental wounds on the archaeologist at the University, to discover they were all caused by the same blade, wielded by the same sure hand.

They were looking for a swordsman of appalling skill and deadly accuracy. From what little the police had turned up on MacLeod, he appeared to fit the description to a tee. Mysterious and brooding, he haunted the edges of half a dozen unsolved cases. The expert who longed to exercise his expertise. Whatever cord that held the violence in check until now had finally snapped.

They had only to catch him before he carved up another hapless victim. As for motivation, she was content to leave the dissection of his psyche to Mulder. He was at home with the darker side of the criminal mind.

The door opened, not on Mulder, but on a kid with unruly red hair in a leather jacket. Idly she watched him cross to the bar and speak with the owner. They greeted each other as old friends, then put their heads together.

Scully's brows rose. Dawson, the owner, was also a friend of MacLeod's. Scully, debating whether to move closer to their conversation, saw the door open again, this time on a spare man who moved like a dancer. His eyes were also on the pair by the bar.

She watched as the lithe newcomer melted into the shadows, where he could keep the young man under observation without being noticed in return. Something about his quiet, emotionless gaze made Scully's blood run cold.

That and the elegant riding boots he wore.

#

"C'mon, Joe," Richie wheedled. "You've gotta know where Mac is. You're his Watcher." He ran a hand through his wave of red hair, destroying any hope of grooming. What was it with these guys, always underfoot when you didn't need them, then when you did-?

"Richie, Mac can take care of himself." Dawson the bartender served up an order before returning to the impetuous Immortal. "You're the one who needs to be careful, son. Or hadn't you noticed there's a new player in town?"

Richie grinned, but his eyes reflected no humor. "I noticed someone's trying to draw Mac out, going after an old friend of his. Mac might not be thinking straight right now. He needs his friends."

The Watcher winced. "Well, he's not the only one," Dawson said, shaking his head. "I'm telling you, Richie, it's not safe out there. You'd do better to stick to crowds, my friend."

"Is that what you told Mac?" For a Watcher, Dawson sure was meddlesome.

"He wouldn't listen any more than you will," Dawson sighed. He actually looked sad.

Richie laughed, his good-natured approach to life not easily suppressed. "Don't take it so hard, Joe. Like you said, Mac can take care of himself. And I had the best teacher."

The young Immortal tried once more. "So you still won't tell me where Mac is-?"

"Richie, I don't know. But even if I did, I couldn't interfere. You know that."

"Yeah, yeah," Richie said, irritated with the older man. "The damned Watcher code." He turned away with a backward wave of his hand. "See ya around, Joe."

"Watch your head, Richie," Dawson called after him, but the young Immortal didn't acknowledge the warning.

Dawson's attention was called back to the bar just then, so he didn't notice the figure detach itself from the shadows and slip into the night after Richie.

Nor did he notice the small, red-haired woman who followed them both.

#

Equestrian Hunt Club - Outside Seattle, WA

Mulder, negotiating the tree-lined drive to the main building, thought wryly of this as a wild-boot chase. His circuitous path had led him here, to a posh private club of horse buffs. The likelihood that one of them was his crazed, sword-wielding maniac was slim to none. But it was the last name on the list, and his thoroughness gene wouldn't let him quit until he had eliminated it from the running.

He pulled his rental car into the car park, expecting to be directed around to the tradesman's lot. But no such officious person materialized to fulfill his paranoid expectations. He reached the lobby unmolested.

The marble and wood-graced antechamber went past grand to palatial. Far too ornate for Mulder's plebeian tastes, it nonetheless struck a chord of awe in him. Royalty couldn't have it better.

He presented his credentials to the alert attendant behind the desk. "Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI."

The woman smiled sweetly, unfazed by his official presence. "How may I help you, Special Agent?"

With an inward sigh, Mulder produced the photocopy of the boot he hunted. "I'm looking for anyone wearing this riding boot," he said, resigned to the answer even as it came.

But she surprised him. "Why, yes. One of our recent guests wears that style of boot. He's very particular about them." Was that a flash of distaste? Before he could decide, she continued, "I'm afraid you just missed him. Mr. Peters has gone out for the evening."

Mulder blinked. Peters - not MacLeod? He smiled hesitantly. "In that case, may I see his room?" He gave her a sobering look. "It's in relation to a murder investigation."

Her pretty eyes grew wide, then settled into a satisfied amusement. "Of course, Special Agent. Let me just get you the key-"

Scully would accuse him of using his puppy dog face on the ladies again, but Scully wasn't here. She was relaxing to blues while he labored away on the case. But with any luck, he was about to uncover the identity of their killer.

Peters or MacLeod or whatever he called himself, his swashbuckling days were numbered. Mulder took the winding marble staircase two treads at a time, pass key in hand.


	7. Chapter 7

Richie adjusted the cavalry saber under his leather jacket as he mounted his bike. Tricky, learning to conceal a sword about his person while riding a racing bike. On long hauls, he usually kept it inside his bed roll, but when tooling around town, it was safer to keep it to hand. Especially with an Immortal going berserk and leaving his messes for mortals to find and fret over.

Mac had taught him well. When Richie took a head, he was always careful to dispose of the body afterward. Headless corpses tended to bring the cops out of the woodwork. Richie had no intention of spending the next sixty or seventy years behind bars for manslaughter.

This untidy Immortal, whoever he was, had the locals going crazy. And now the FBI was involved. Mac had to stop this whacko before they all ended up on the newsracks in the grocery line.

Richie didn't see why Dawson wouldn't help him out. The Watchers were in for as much heat as Immortals if any of their activities came to light. Wasn't that last butchered guy one of Joe's? You'd think he'd be more upset.

Traffic was light and Richie swung into the fast lane on the cross-town freeway. He wasn't sure where to look for Mac, but he might as well start with the University. Whoever killed Dr. Browning had to know it would inflame Mac. Perhaps he left some clue only another Immortal would recognize.

At least Richie hoped so. Otherwise he was up the proverbial creek without an outboard motor.

Something kicked in the engine. Funny, everything was working fine this afternoon. Richie eased over to take the next exit. University Park Drive, the round-about way to his goal, through wooded parkland.

Richie left a trail of black smoke as he took the exit through the deserted wood. He was out of sight of civilization when the engine died all together.

"Shit!" It did no good to kick the tires. Richie tore off his helmet and tossed it onto his handlebars. He scanned the road: it was a long hike either way.

His Senses jangled a warning - too late. He felt the approach of Another just as he saw the dark shape of a car that must have followed him off the freeway. The car rolled to a stop and a spare figure emerged.

The sword was in his hand before he saw the answering glint in the hand of the advancing Immortal.

#

Petrovic took his time. The boy looked scared, but even a tiger cub has claws. This one had a saber.

Ryan stood his ground, waiting for his adversary to reach him. Good, he didn't run. Petrovic was in no mood to hunt down frightened children in the dark woods. A shame to take this one so young. In another decade or two - but he didn't have the luxury. Ryan must give up his head tonight. His plan was carefully orchestrated to frustrate the Highlander while allowing him no time to recover from his losses.

"Who the hell are you?" the boy called brashly.

Petrovic drew himself up, clicked his heels, and bowed curtly. "I am Count Aldur Petrovic, insulant cub. This can be quick and painless," he offered, running his fingers lovingly over his blade. "Or you can give me a passable fight, for which I thank you in advance."

Ryan responded with a lunge to his midsection. "Don't thank me too soon," he hissed hotly.

"Ah!" said the Count, somersaulting out of range into a mocking flourish. "Let us dance, then."

Ryan had skill, augmented by natural talent, but he was hopelessly outclassed. The Count taunted him, dancing within range, only to spin out again. And always there were the little cuts, the pricks to the nerves, like flies to a tethered horse.

The boy was not so cock-sure now, and his breathing labored. So, he relied too much on his sword arm and not enough on his stamina. The fatal flaw of youth. Too bad he would not live to learn from this lesson.

Petrovic was just reaching his stride. Alas, as he feared, this one would not entertain him for long. Already he was postponing the inevitable, dragging it out to an absurd length, given the limited abilities of his opponent.

Anger was causing Ryan to make mistakes. He lunged, but left himself no room to recover. The Count cut his hamstring for his efforts.

"Aaagh!" The boy went down to his knees, then rolled out of range of the Count's intended blow.

"Enough, boy," he said, growing tired of the game. "Let us make an end of it."

Ryan climbed his way to one foot, clinging to his sword for support. "Come and try," he spat, the cry of the cornered tiger cub.

The Count smiled slowly. "There is spirit in you, boy. Perhaps you have not been an entire waste of my time."

Ryan hopped in place as Petrovic advanced on him. He successfully countered the first blow, and the second, balanced on one foot. But a fake caused him to overbalance, and he fell forward onto Petrovic's sword, driving it into his chest as he toppled over. He fell in silence.

The boy's body shuddered as Petrovic withdrew his sword, but he made no sound but his labored breathing. His eyes burned into Petrovic's, and if looks could accomplish what skill could not, their rolls would have been reversed.

"Will is not always enough, boy. Let that be your last lesson." He raised his sword high above his head.

"'There can be only one,'" he intoned the formal words.

"Drop it!"

A woman's angry cry, followed by a gunshot. The bullet tore into Petrovic's shoulder, and he changed his target in a white rage.

"Drop the sword!" she screamed again, advancing on him as she sighted along the barrel. "FBI!"

He swung on her and she fired again. The second bullet took him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. Petrovic dropped his sword as his arm went numb and his sight began to blur.

With a roar, he stumbled into the trees, seeking refuge before his body died.


	8. Chapter 8

Deserted Woodland - University Park

Still shaking from the close call, Scully lowered her weapon and dropped to her knees beside the dying boy. She held his head while he coughed up blood. There was nothing she could do, no help she could summon in time.

He thrashed feebly in her arms. "Can't...let him...take... my head..." he choked out between spasms.

"Shhh," she crooned, rocking, brushing the wayward curls out of his eyes. "He's gone. No one can hurt you now."

"You...don't...understand..." he said, fighting desperately to convince her.

But whatever he wanted to tell her died with him. She lowered him gently to the blood-stained grass. Shivering, she removed her coat and covered him with it, then walked a few feet away to retrieve the murder weapon.

She handled it carefully to preserve any prints, though it looked to her as if the killer wore leather gloves. Scully carried it to her car, where she bagged and tagged it.

Then, still shivering, she pulled out her cell phone and called for police backup. There was a wounded murder suspect to flush out of the woods, as well as another victim to process. It was going to be a long night.

Scully waited by the rental car until the first unit showed up, lights flashing. She walked the detective over to view the body, but when she lifted the coat, it was gone.

Along with the cavalry saber that had slipped from the boy's lifeless fingers.

#

Equestrian Hunt Club - Outside Seattle, WA

Not one room, but a suite of rooms. This Peters guy had resources to spare. Mulder worked his way through the bedchamber, going over every inch. Nothing under the bed more incriminating than a scandalous dust bunny.

The great teak armoire contained clothes befitting the occupant of such a set of rooms, but did they go with the image of a dojo master? For that matter, what antiques dealer could afford such luxurious digs?

Still, MacLeod was their best suspect. Mulder's sixth sense told him the man was hiding a dark secret. And it wasn't that he fudged on his tax returns. The man had an air of danger about him, carefully controlled but lying just under the quiet surface calm. Mulder would bet his life on it.

Which was why he wanted to finish up and get out of here before the tenant returned.

With the boots he'd found in the armoire, he could pretty well make his case. But he wanted to find the murder weapon. With that, they'd have their suspect cold.

Something about the great teak cabinet didn't look right to Mulder. Everything else in the room was so precise and crisp in line, why was it the armoire seemed to cant to the right? It didn't lay flush with the wall.

Mulder eased his hand carefully between the massive piece of furniture and the paneled wall, up to his shoulder. His fingers brushed something cold and smooth - and sharp.

Mulder removed his coat and tried again, this time getting a few inches more. Enough to curl his fingers around the grip of a sword and draw it out slowly.

Bingo.

He carried it to the bed and examined it under stronger light. It had been wiped clean, from what he could see, but forensics might pick up traces of blood and latent prints. He handled it as little as possible, turning it by the guard. Truly museum quality. A collector's piece, but with recent nicks in want of grinding.

Mulder swallowed, biting his lip to suppress a grin. Not just a display piece, then. But a working blade. Scully might be able to find traces of tissue and bone in some of those nicks to the edges.

Laying the blade back down on the coverlet, he reached for his cell phone and punched Scully's number, slipping the coat back on one-handed.

She answered on the third ring. "Scully here."

"Scully, I have it," he began without preamble in his excitement.

"Have what, Mulder?" Her voice sounded tired.

"The murder weapon, Scully." He walked to the window, pushing back the brocade drapery to scan the yard in front of the clubhouse. He debated whether he should wait for his quarry, or call in the troups and hurry back with the sword for examination.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Scully? Did you hear me?"

"I heard you, Mulder. You can't have the murder weapon because I do. There's been another killing. I didn't arrive in time to stop it." Her voice quavered. "It was surreal, Mulder. Something out of a Robin Hood movie."

"What are you talking about?" Something caught his eye. A dark figure in a long coat was creeping around the grounds, moving toward the stables.

"A sword fight. I witnessed it. Only then the body disappeared, and the sword was gone too-"

"I thought you said you have the sword," he said, pulling the drapery back farther and peering through the pane.

"I do. The other sword is missing, the one the victim was wielding. And now he's got the body, and another sword..."

"You're not making any sense, Scully. Are you all right? You sound strange."

"Yes, no, I don't know. He died in my arms. Just a kid, scared witless about losing his head, and all the while he was dying...I'm all right. Just a bit cold." She shivered across the air waves.

Mulder gripped the drapery, his attention riveted on the figure below as he skirted a mercury light. Just the glint of silver at the nape of his neck. MacLeod.

"Gotta go, Scully. It's MacLeod. We've got him."

"Mulder, it isn't MacLeod-"

But Mulder had already broken the connection. No time to wait for back up. He pocketed the cell phone and reached for his gun, as he tore off for the stables to confront a dangerously armed killer.


	9. Chapter 9

Petrovic took the back stairs up to his suite. He looked a mess, with bullet holes in his jacket and blood stains drying on the kidskin leather. But a change of attire was the least of his worries. That damn woman had his sword. He was naked without a blade at his side, and he had hurried back to his suite for his spare.

Not his favorite weapon, but a reliable substitute. It had taken it's share of heads over the centuries, with the attendant Quickenings.

When he reached his rooms, he froze in shock. The door was ajar, light he had not left burning spilling into the hall. With careful stealth he advanced on the violated chamber, bending to draw a wicked hunting knife from his boot sheath.

He pressed his shoulder to the wood and shoved violently, but no one jumped out at his entrance. The room was abandoned.

But not before his possessions had been violated as well. His alternate sword lay exposed on the bed, left perhaps as a challenge?

MacLeod. It must have been the Highlander, tracking him to his lair. So soon - but no matter, he was ready for him. MacLeod could not have heard yet that his precious little protegé still retained his head. He could bait him with the knowledge of their fight, and let him draw his own conclusions from it.

Yes, this would work nicely to his advantage.

Sheathing the knife and taking up his trusty sword, Petrovic returned to the hall and a prudent search of the grounds. If he knew the Highlander, he had not gone far. He would be waiting for the Count in some appropriate spot.

The grounds beyond the stables seemed likely. Petrovic headed for them at a trot, eager for this meeting of near equals.

Of course, close did not count in Quickenings.

#

The horses nickered softly as the Highlander moved between stalls. As certain as he was that the Horseman was staying here, his tack would give him away. Petrovic had impeccable taste in everything, but no more so than in horse trappings. He had only to find the right stall and stake it out. Petrovic would be by soon enough.

MacLeod knew exactly where to look for the Immortal as soon as he heard the name. Joe needn't have troubled his conscience on that account. Petrovic's reputation spanned continents and centuries. There wasn't much MacLeod didn't know about his eventual adversary. It had always been a matter of time. He had simply left it up to the Horseman to choose.

But he had chosen to play with MacLeod instead of face him outright, and for that the Highlander would take satisfaction in his killing.

Phyllis should not have been so ill-treated. Hers was a regal soul that deserved a better death. Not as the pathetic plaything of a madman.

How it must have pained her, dying to her own prized possession. Little matter that it was not her personal sword. Knowing Phyllis' passion for unearthing the past, it may have meant more to her than her own sword.

Well, it wouldn't be taking any more heads. Hers was the last Quickening it would ever taste.

MacLeod had managed to palm a brittle shard from the museum floor, a momento of Phyllis and happier days. He patted his pocket, taking comfort in its company.

A beautiful beast snorted at his approach. Now here was a likely candidate, worthy of Petrovic's self image. MacLeod moved closer, making soothing noises while he examined the attendant tack.

Hand tooled leather, beautiful and expensive. The Highlander ran his hand over the Petrovic crest with heightened anticipation. His adversary, at last.

Duncan MacLeod melted into the shadows to await the Immortal he would send to hell.

He didn't have long to wait.

Footfalls betrayed his approach as another figure kept to the shadows.

MacLeod frowned. It wasn't Petrovic, it was-

"FBI! Keep your hands where I can see them and step into the light."

Damn. MacLeod complied reluctantly, keeping the necessary distance he needed to draw blade and disarm the agent, if pressed to it. He hoped he didn't have to, but Petrovic could arrive at any moment.

"Open your coat," the man ordered, obviously nervous.

"I can't very well do that with my hands over my head," MacLeod intoned placidly, trying to calm the armed agent. The last thing he needed right now was a bullet wound. Not with Petrovic so close to hand.

And then he Sensed him. Petrovic. The timing couldn't be worse.

The agent gestured with his gun. "Use your left hand. Let me see the sword."

Damn and damn. How did he know about his sword? MacLeod smiled ruefully, lowering his left hand ever so slowly, like a cobra dancing to the agent's tune.

And with his right, he drew his katana so smoothly the man had no time to blink. The gun went rattling from his numbed fingers as the hilt collided with them. The man was stunned, rooted to the stable floor in deadly fascination as his eyes followed the arc of the blade back to rest.

"Is this what you wanted to see?" MacLeod asked, his attention drawn to the doorway as a figure blocked the light.

The FBI agent turned too, hoping for rescue, but finding only his advancing doom. Petrovic danced lightly over the hay-strewn floor, brandishing his sword like a baton.

"We meet at last, Highlander," Petrovic called heartily. "I have looked forward to this day with great anticipation. Our last meeting was much too brief." He flourished his blade, baiting him.

MacLeod nodded toward their little problem. "You are forgetting. We are not alone."

The agent looked from one set face to the other, not liking his chances. "I can come back," he offered feebly, trying for a joke.

"But that is easily remedied," Petrovic bowed, brushing his boot with his open hand. He straightened suddenly, and the agent gave a surprised grunt.

MacLeod watched the man crumple to the floor, a knife protruding from his chest. His eyes, half closed, fixed on MacLeod's with a mixture of puzzled curiosity. As if he expected to find the answer to a long-held riddle.

MacLeod shook it off. A man was entitled to face his death as he saw fit. He had greater worries at the moment.

Petrovic leapt over the silent figure, landing lightly beside his head. The agent coughed, struggling for breath in the settling dust. They ignored him. The battle was engaged.

"It is fortunate you found me when you did, Highlander," the Horseman purred. "Any earlier, and I would not have had the pleasure of meeting your young friend, Ryan. Such a promising young lad. A pity." He smiled broadly, showing perfect teeth.

MacLeod's heart leapt into his mouth, but he schooled his face, offering Petrovic nothing. Don't think of Richie. It is only another reason to kill the arrogant bastard.

"Ah," Petrovic taunted. "I see you don't believe me." They were moving steadily toward the back of the stable and the open grounds beyond. "He has a tendency to swing too hard. A fatal flaw. It commits him to a target, requiring him to use his own strength to pull it back. I wonder that you did not train him out of it."

MacLeod let his lips stretch into a mirthless grin. "We all have our fatal flaws, Petrovic. Yours is your wagging tongue."

Petrovic aped a shrug. "I was ever the gossip. But my opponents give me so much to talk about, and I seldom have someone worthy of sharing my observations. Like yourself, MacLeod."

Shedding his duster as he moved backwards past the agitated horses, he drew Petrovic after him. "I would sooner converse with these horses, Petrovic, than listen to any more of your prattle." He smiled, but his eyes told the lie.

"Then let us begin," the Horseman sang out, leaping at MacLeod with sudden fury.

He barely side-stepped the attack, turning the Count's blade with his katana. But when he moved to counter attack, his opponent was not where he had expected.

But he should have expected this. It was Petrovic's signature style. Ever the acrobat, ever the clown. Lithe as a dancer in this dance macabre.

Well, MacLeod could adjust his steps to match his partner's. He cartwheeled one-handed past Petrovic's startled eyes.

The Horseman's face suffused with joy. "At last! A worthy opponent." He threw himself into the fight in earnest.

MacLeod was pressed to keep up the tempo. As fit as he was, he was no trained acrobat. He lacked the Count's lithe build and fluid form. But he could match him move for move as long as his strength held. And he did have the advantage of reach with his longer arm and katana. So long as he didn't flag, he had every chance.

Steel clashed, shooting sparks into the black night, as the Immortals fought a 3-dimensional battle. They scored hits, soaring past each other in aerial feats of legerdemain.

Petrovic could keep this up all night. MacLeod could not. He must wrest the advantage, or lose all. And soon.

The Highlander somersaulted out of the Horseman's reach, ruining a perfect maneuver. Petrovic lept past his katana's reach, spoiling his own. Their syncopated ballet was unnerving to them both. But there would be no stalemate to their match. One would emerge victorious, keeper of his head.

MacLeod felt a prick as Petrovic wheeled by. He was growing bolder. He must sense the Highlander's limits. Very well then, MacLeod would give him something to ponder.

A diverting new move to the dance.

MacLeod snaked his free hand into his pants pocket and withdrew the shard from the bog sword. At the same moment, he dropped his sword arm an enticing distance. Petrovic took the bait, driving for the Highlander's exposed center.

At the last moment, MacLeod dodged aside, dropping his katana even lower. But his left hand came up as he spun, catching Petrovic in the throat with the shard and punching it home.

The Horseman collapsed to his knees, hands flying to his ruined throat as he gasped in vain. Air whistled uselessly out through the gaping wound.

MacLeod stepped in slowly, mindful of a dangerous adversary. But Petrovic was undone, laid open for the killing blow.

"For Phyllis, for Richie," MacLeod intoned. "'There can be only one.'"

He sent the Horseman's head flying toward the stable wall. It hit with a satisfying thwack. MacLeod stooped to retrieve the bloody shard from just below the cut, then straightened to receive the Quickening.

The spectral vapors wreathed about his feet, climbing to his head and beyond. The first bolt tore a power line loose from somewhere above the stable. He absorbed its fiery force through his upraised sword-

And that was his last conscious thought as the Quickening took him.


	10. Chapter 10

The stable floor - Equestrian Hunt Club

Mulder had struck a bargain with his lungs. He would not try to breathe and they would not erupt through his chest wall. So far neither had been faithful to the agreement.

Blood bubbled up when he coughed, which he couldn't help, face down in the dust and the hay. He had a startlingly clear view of the boot he was chasing as it landed in front of his nose. Then it was gone again.

Curious. He could have sworn MacLeod was in front of him when he fell. Then he remembered. It was the other musketeer who had thrown the knife. And it was he who sported the riding boots. Peters, then, not MacLeod. That was good to know. 'Course the knowledge came too late to do him any good.

His vision came and went, independent of his desire. And there was so much to see. The musketeers were going at it fast and furious, just outside the stable door. He caught the show whenever he could tune them in. He wished they'd keep their feet on the ground, though. All that leaping about was giving him a headache.

The knife handle grated against the cell phone every time he drew breath. If only he could reach it. The cell phone; he didn't dare dislodge the knife, or he could whistle for his next breath.

But the cell phone had possibilities. He wormed his hand free of his body weight, inching it toward his inside coat pocket. His fingers brushed the protruding hilt, and he gasped. When his vision cleared again, he inched them closer. He could feel the phone, but he couldn't budge it.

Drat. Well, that was that.

But wait, he didn't have to pull it out. He had only to switch it on. That done, he fumbled for recall and prayed.

If you ever were glad to hear from me, Scully, he thought fervently, pick up now. He couldn't speak, but he reasoned his bubbling gasps would arouse some curiosity.

Unless, of course, she took him for a heavy breather.

This caused him to laugh, for which he was heartily sorry for quite some time. When his vision cleared again,

the fight had taken a most curious turn.

Peters was resting on the ground while MacLeod danced wildly about, spotlit in a shower of fireworks.

They could take this act on the road. But they'd have to leave the horses at home. The animals were leaping their railings and running amuck.

Mulder coughed on the rising dust until the curtain came down on the whole show.

#

Gradually the fog in his brain dissipated as the tendrils of energy died away. MacLeod found himself on his knees, sword arcing heavenward. He sank to his haunches, drawing lungfuls of air through his raw throat. The air was thick with dust and hay, stirred up by the Quickening - and something else. A dozen or more horses were milling fitfully in the yard.

MacLeod climbed to his feet, abusing his Katana, and stumbled back to the stables. He gave Petrovic's body a wide berth. It wasn't a pretty sight, lying as it had in the path of the frightened horses.

The wounded FBI agent concerned him more. The man had fallen practically in front of one of the stalls, and might have taken collateral damage.

But he'd been lucky. MacLeod found him in the shelter of a leaning gate, kicked open by one of the escaping horses. All the other animals had detoured around it.

He'd survived the Quickening, but he wasn't going to make it. The man was drowning in his own blood.

MacLeod lifted his head from the sticky hay and turned him over onto his back. He coughed and sputtered, but at least he was taking in air. MacLeod hesitated over the knife. It was killing the man, but his battlefield training told him it was also stemming the tide. He left it alone.

Voices reached his ears from the main lodge, and off in the distance a siren wailed. Help was on the way. Time to fade into the night before he had to explain his presence to a yardful of anxious policemen.

Bad enough having to explain Petrovic's. There at least, he was aided by the horses. Better to leave the body, he decided, and let the authorities paint their own grizzly picture.

As for the FBI agent - if he lived at all, his account would be suspect, contradicted by the facts.

Or so MacLeod fervently hoped. Nothing he could do about it at this point.

Returning his katana to it's resting place and snatching up Petrovic's blade from the muck, the Highlander sprinted for the woods and the side road where he'd left his car. He wanted nothing right now, so much as a hot shower.

There was plenty of time later to think about Richie.

But he couldn't get the kid's picture out of his head. Richie, made Immortal on the cusp of maturity, had had a tough time ahead of him anyway. Running into Petrovic was just bad Immortal luck.

Mac had lost students before, but none so promising as Richie Ryan. None he had taken into his home and raised as his own -what- son? Certainly family.

The street lights washed before his eyes like watercolors, and he blinked to clear them. First Tessa, and now Richie.

Alone again. Maybe it was better this way. Entanglements only slowed him down, left him open to predators like Petrovic. He'd won that battle, but at what a cost?

He pulled into his slot and started for the loft. He felt old, every one of his 400-plus years weighing heavily on his soul tonight. What was the purpose of accumulating years if all the life leaked out of them?

Something caught his eye and he stopped. There was a light on in his loft. He started to turn away, in no mood to deal with feds or cops, when something else reached him.

It pricked his Senses - an Immortal.

MacLeod took the back stairs, sword in hand. Whoever invaded his home tonight would pay a high price for his trespass. MacLeod was in no mood to be magnanimous.

He kicked the door open. It crashed into the wall and rebounded.

But not before it revealed a sight he'd never hoped to see again. He entered slowly, half-afraid of popping the illusion.

"Oh Mac," said a wide-eyed Richie, throttling his saber. "Am I glad to see you. I thought it was that maniac."


	11. Chapter 11

Crime Scene - Equestrian Stable Yard

"Over here, Agent Scully."

Dana hurried ahead of the ambulance attendants unloading the gurney, following the voice of the EMT into the flashlit stables. "Is he alive?" she asked, breathless, kneeling beside her partner's head.

It was a rerun of this evening, only the victim was all too familiar. Blood and spittle ran down his neck, and there was no sense behind the staring eyes. Mulder coughed, bubbling up more blood, answering her question.

"What are his vitals?" She felt for a pulse.

The EMT hooked Mulder up to an IV, prepping him for transport. "It missed his heart," he said, brushing off her question.

"I'm a doctor," Scully persisted. She picked up the EKG reading as it came out of the machine, and frowned.

The EMT did three things at once. "You can see for yourself." The handle of a hunting knife protruded alarmingly from Mulder's chest.

"He's strong and healthy," he added, trying to be kind.

The gurney arrived and they hustled their patient off for the short trip to the Emergency Room. He was in better hands than hers. Scully watched them wheel him out of the stables, then turned reluctantly to survey the scene.

Grooms scurried about, trying to capture the dozen or so horses that had bolted. Gates were ruined, kicked to splinters in some cases. In their frenzy, the horses had trampled everything in sight.

Including, apparently, the man she failed to stop from killing the boy earlier this evening in the park. Scully stepped through the cordon of cops and technicians working the site. The boot-clad body lay trampled in the center of the yard. It was hard to tell if the head was there or not. There didn't appear to be enough mass to account for an entire body, but they'd have to comb the whole grounds to be sure. Whatever occurred in the yards tonight had driven the horses into a homicidal fury.

"What could account for such behavior?" she asked the head groom, who strangled a leather lead in his large hands as he answered officers' questions.

"I ain't seen anything like it," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "I read about horses in war doin' stuff like that-" He just kept shaking his head, twisting the lead into a pretzel.

Scully noted the trailing power line. The hay in front of the stable doors was blackened where it lay. She stepped carefully over it.

"It's not live anymore, Agent Scully," one of the officers said, indicating the line with a jerk of his head. "Must'a been one helluva light show when it blew." His eyes traveled over the grounds to settle on the body. "Tell ya one thing: my daughter's not getting a pony for her birthday."

Scully stood aside as a harried groom trotted by with a nervous horse on a tether. The animal shied away from the body, flaring his nostrils and displaying the whites of his eyes. She glanced down to see blood on the horse's hooves, and shivered.

That might have been Mulder's blood. Only a miracle saved Fox from the carnage in the horse yard. Scully believed in justice, but this was too swift and sure for her tastes.

Satisfied the police were handling the crime scene efficiently, Scully hurried after the ambulance in her rental car. With their killer safely dead, Mulder was now her sole concern.

She was useless for any further work until she knew her partner's prognosis.

If she still had a partner.

#

Intensive Care - Seattle General Hospital

Scully cat-napped in the chair beside Mulder's bed, now that the worst was past. He still looked like death warmed over, but the doctors all assured her he would make it. She could see that for herself. And she had never really doubted Mulder's will to survive. Like the trickster of myth, he took too much pleasure in plaguing her existence to slip away in the night.

His breathing was no longer labored. The knife had pierced one lung, but thankfully nothing else. If he had laid much longer on the stable floor, he would have drowned in his own blood. Lucky he had the presence of mind to call her.

It was a wonder he wasn't trampled, like the unfortunate Mr. Peters. Identification of the body, but the boots, was inconclusive. His bad luck to be in the way when the downed power line drove the horses into a frenzy.

Of course if he hadn't been, he might have finished Mulder off. Scully didn't want to think of life without her irascible partner.

He stirred and she came fully awake. His eyes opened, finally focusing on her. "Hi," he breathed.

"Hi yourself." She smiled. "We almost lost you."

"I'm surprised you found me at all," he mouthed the words, then smiled ruefully. "Did you get Peters?"

Scully made a face. "What was left of him." She filled him in.

Mulder shook his head on the pillow. "No. It was MacLeod - the swords -"

Scully patted his hand. "There was no one there but Peters. And there were no swords. You dreamt it, Mulder."

"I saw a sword fight," he insisted...two swordsmen, leaping through the air... "Well, maybe it was a dream." His brows knit, his mind unsure.

"Don't worry about it now, Mulder. Just get well. Peters is dead. The murders have stopped. Case closed."

"But not the X-File," Mulder protested. "How can you explain the light shows?"

Scully pondered. "Freak electrical storm for the body in the woods. And faulty wiring in the exhibit hall with the second one. There was no reported light show with body number three. And I saw nothing of the kind when the fourth one was killed - they haven't found the body yet, but it's sure to turn up."

"What about the fifth - Peters' murder?" Mulder pressed. "I saw it myself."

Scully smiled, brushing his hair away from his eyes, doctor to patient. "Easiest of all: a downed power line in the yard. Unfortunate accident, that's all."

"But I saw Peters and MacLeod, fighting with swords-"

"There was no evidence of a sword fight, Mulder. No indication that MacLeod was even there."

"Except my fevered brain-?"

She smiled wryly. "You did have a shock to the system," she tried to smooth it over.

Mulder tossed his head in resignation. "Well, without evidence, it doesn't matter what I saw. Another dead end. Another inconclusive X-File."

"Don't take it so hard. We stopped a killer." She lifted his head and helped him take a sip of water.

"Did we?" he said, when his thirst was slaked. "What about MacLeod? And Dawson?"

Scully looked uncomfortable. "Gone," she said. "I was a little distracted with you. And by the time anyone thought to check, the bartender had left on extended vacation, and the dojo was closed for repairs. DiSalvo said MacLeod left for Europe and wasn't expected back any time soon."

"Well," said Mulder, consoling himself with one thought. "At least we have that old book with the stick-bird emblem. I have a feeling it will tell us a lot."

#

FBI Headquarters - Seattle, WA

The book was still on his mind a week later when Mulder returned briefly to the local headquarters. Ostensibly there to sign off on the case, there was one more thing he had to do.

Moving slowly, Mulder made his way through the corridors to the Property room. Research had sent him there, having completed their examination of the curious tome. They were under the impression it was a clever hoax, in as much as it had to be pure fantasy.

Creatures that lived forever. Men cutting off other men's heads, absorbing their powers. It was something out of a super-hero comic.

Mulder had laughed along with the research tech, but his mind kept throwing up an image of MacLeod, dancing in the air like a marionette on strings of flame...

Property was most apologetic, but what was that call number again?

Lost. Misfiled or misplaced, it would take a lifetime to go through every cabinet and every drawer in the building, let alone the warehouse downtown. And then, there was the Property Room back at D.C. Headquarters - it might have been shipped there...

Mulder got the picture. It was gone, like all the evidence he ever managed to eek out of an X-File. It was as if the universe conspired against him.

But then he knew that already.

He thanked the clerk and turned to leave. Seeing how slowly he was moving, the helpful fellow scurried around the counter to get the door for him.

"Glad to see you're back on your feet, Special Agent Mulder," the freckle-faced clerk beamed.

News got around in a small office.

Mulder joined up with Scully and they headed for the airport and their flight back to D.C. With any luck, he wouldn't dream of flashing swords and electric flames.

Not that it was the worst dream he could imagine...

#

Property Room - Seattle, WA

The freckle-faced clerk watched Mulder's receding back, and heaved a sigh. They'd pulled it off.

Dawson had been confident they could, but he still had his fears. Agent Mulder was like a dog with a bone, and once he got his teeth in that Chronicle, it could mean the end of the Watcher Organization, not to mention the Immortals.

Mulder hadn't suspected a thing. But why should he? The book was simply misfiled; he could accept that explanation. It happened often enough for real.

The freckle-faced clerk closed the door, and as he did so, his sleeve slid down to reveal the Watcher tattoo on his wrist. He turned it this way and that. Yes, he could see it. It might be taken for a stick-figure of a bird in flight, at that.

Of course it was nothing of the sort.

#

Epilogue

"Now this is the life," Richie said, stretching out on the sundeck of Mac's Parisian houseboat. "I should be dead more often."

Mac tossed his protegé a mop. "Just be lucky the FBI agent didn't know who you were, or you'd be dead for a decade or more. As it is, you can stay here as long as you work for your keep."

"Is that the sympathy I get?" Richie smiled, but he rubbed his neck self-consciously. "That's the closest I ever want to get to the other side of a Quickening."

Mac picked up another mop and struck a fighter's pose. "Well, it won't be, if you don't learn to weight your attack properly. How do you expect to recover if you throw everything into the blow and leave nothing for the return?"

Richie sprang eagerly to his feet. "What do you mean? I'm the soul of poise and balance."

Richie flourished his mophead, lunging at his teacher with a wide grin. Mac side-stepped the attack, bringing his own mop handle solidly to bear on Richie's outstretched arms.

"Ow!"

Before the cocky Immortal could recover from the stinging blow, Mac swept his knees out from under him, and he landed hard on the deck.

"Ah!" he said, rubbing his keester with his sore arms. "I get the point."

Mac threw down his mop and helped his young friend to his feet. "I hope you do."

That was one lesson Richie could chalk up to the Count. It just might save his head in the future.

"I'm starved," Richie said, grinning hopelessly. "Haven't you got anything to eat on this tub?"

"Not for much longer, if you keep going through the galley like a rat through a granary." He cuffed the young Immortal good-naturedly on the ear and headed below deck.

Richie ducked under Mac's arm, bounding ahead. "Can I help it if I'm still a growing boy?"

Laughter erupted from the heart of the barge.

-And somewhere, quite nearby, a Watcher scribbled...


End file.
